


Touch And Go

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-13
Updated: 2006-03-13
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8088862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Hoshi has an audience. (01/02/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

Anticipation. Yes, that was now the strongest emotion in me. Knowing exactly the completion, the release, the unwinding, the negation of tensions and stresses.

Forebrain talking. My Id doesn't need convincing, talk, or argument. This is a moment of body, not mind. Didn't you teach me to accept the pairing of flesh with mind, Father?

I pause beside my wardrobe, beginning the languorous theater of disrobing.

I know I am not a pretty woman; a few have been unkind enough to reveal their judgmental lists. Comely. Handsome, perhaps. Pleasing to those raised in the Nipponese culture. But not beautiful. It is unfair that the judgments of others are the bench marks of our beauty. Yet it is a truth all us women acknowledge, human or otherwise.

I have a narrow full-length mirror, an ornate yet simple Cheval-glass design rather than a utilitarian square, hanging from my bulkhead wall. Scallops in the corners, fluorided edging, a thing of minimalist yet ornate charm. I need only turn my head to view myself in its deep reflections.

Half boots off with a touch. My issue trousers follow my service tunic, and I am transformed. No longer am I merely a crew member, but a female. I am also now peach-white blouse falling from two wide straps, step-ins of the same soft shade, with my dark eyes drinking in my suddenly feminine attributes.

How puzzling that a few garments and the mysteries whispered by them are ever so much more tantalizing than mere nudity.

Next the blouse and underpants slide off, and I am biological. Still as I was, but now quite desirable in most eyes. But the secrets unveiled have become mere flesh and gender.

Tonight, now, there will be more, however. I shall become more than breasts, waist, hips, vagina, soft buttocks jiggling in movement, nipples hardening when I pinch them—ah yes! My hand wanders down body to belly, to pause for a second in belly button, before it lingers in the sparse straight black hairs of my groin. Not many hairs, I have seen many others, of course.

Yet the effect of weaving my fingers in them is so—Electric!

My bathroom, my commode, my sink, my ledge, my too-large side wall mirror is next.

I lay two large thick towels across the recessed bar to the side, and retrieve my genuine treasure from its hiding place behind a cabinet door. Out of its bag and box, and I hold a thick throw of brown-ice-white chinchilla fur. It is placed on the ledge. As always I run my fingers through the replicated luxury.

Some women have black silk bed sheets as an intimate luxury. Others have dainty and frilly confections of nightwear. Mine is my soft luxurious pad of precious divine softness. This fur never felt the heat of life before it came to me. Now already I warm, my hands become sensual rippling through its thickness.

I have cleared the sink ledge of everything excepting my slender bottle of aromatic oil. It is a simple hand and skin oil to most. The label states its benefits and quality.

A jump and twist, and my not-so-slight frame is on the ledge. My buttocks lie gratefully on my fur, and my back leans against the thick towels. Across the sink lies myself, my mirrored image.

I let my feet pool in the sink bowl, cushioned by a bright large red towel. My knees fall to the sides, and I stare into my own eyes. I am feverish, or so I imagine. The mirror throws back an obscene me.

My naked groin begins to blossom.

My labia know what is about to occur, they darken and grow, spilling out into the golden overhead light. My clit knows, and already small sparks fitfully fire into my belly. My vagina is not quite completely hidden by my flesh, and I shiver as it closes down on emptiness and complains of the lack.

If I wish, there are a few objects in a drawer under my hand, but this moment is not about insertions. This infinitely to-be-repeated second is about subtler joys.

My gaze is riveted on my groin as I raise the bottle and lightly squeeze it. A trio of golden drops fall on me. All are in the region of my clit, and my middle fingers quickly spread them lightly over the apex of my sex. My clit springs to instant hardness for the coldness of the oil and the sudden heat of my hands touching my most sensitive bundle.

I cannot help it. Suddenly my fingers are tight and straight, and they are rubbing fiercely at me. I pour a dozen more drops onto my hand as I go into fierce high gear.

My eyes are half-lidded, my mouth is open and I am breathing hoarsely, loudly.

More oil and I know I can bring myself to a quick climax now. Sudden, sharp, hard, painful, making me cry and cry out loud.

But I do not. I imagine steam is rising from my heated clit, but another few drops of oil cools it dramatically.

I am beautiful. My vagina winks at me, still complaining of having nothing to fill it. But my fire is burning bright at the hooded top of my secret vee.

My finger touches it, bringing complaint and electricity. Then my two middle fingers lay to each side of it and my labes. I squeeze them together, wagging myself, exciting myself, feeling the bobsleds of sparks ride up my belly and thighs, encircling my groin and back hole.

I close my eyes and squeeze and wag and wave and see against the blackness of my eyelids the golden cascades of golden heat and magma flow from my center. With hooded eyes I drink in the sight of my tiny white pearl of hardness at the heart of my clit. So beautiful it is! So exciting! So desperate in its pulsing!

My hand is raised, and one fingernail barely abrades the white pearl of me, then again, and again, and again. Time after time, strumming my bleeding clit, the fire my blood, and I stare amazed at how it alternates between red fire and analeptic shock of whiteness. My heart races in tune with its pulse, my breath is shallow and fast, and I cannot resist any longer.

I lay a finger on its oiled surface, hard, pushing deep, pushing hard, gliding on oil, rubbing frantically, faster and faster.

Then I lift my hand. All of me cries for me to continue, my clit is burning hard, crying out for an end.

Instead I squirt a line of oil on it.

It burns!

It is freezing, I gasp loudly, I must heat it with my touch.

I am lost.

My fingers are a wedge, a sword, a martial arts weapon, my fingers stab at my red and white pulsing rod, and it cannot do anything but rub and hurt and release...!

White sparks against my closed eyelids. A long drawn out gasp. A sudden flurry of new rubbings and hurtings and pushing and I freeze again.

My sobs are loud and anguished.

It was so good. So good. I cannot now touch myself, it hurts too much, and my breath seeks air somehow.

Peace, peace, my groin is melted down, but it still exists, my entire groin is reddish and puffy and tender.

My friend, my dearest friend, my lover, rises up from her perch and place of observation. Her tunic is long since gone, as are her boots and slacks. She turns, inviting me to unhook her satiny breast holder. It is a simple tap bind, and it falls into her arms as I lean over and kiss her faintly olive skin.

T'Pol shivers as I caress her back and her cap of hair.

"Do you wish to show me now how you do it, my dearest Vulcan?"

"Later," she calmly states. Her lips find my shoulder, her tongue proceeds to my neck, lifting my unbound hair carefully with one strong hand. She pauses a second to unbind and step out of her shorts; then she bent to my neglected breasts.

"First I must practice on you," she mumbles around my nipple.


End file.
